


Count To Three

by spies_never_die



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Pre-Canon, Swearing, canon-divergence, loss/grief/betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spies_never_die/pseuds/spies_never_die
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In life's intense moments a little clarity is needed. To take a step back and evaluate the situation. To control yourself and clear your mind. To remind yourself things aren't so bad and can be good again. And sometimes the simplest way to do that is to count to three.<br/>A (complete) three-chapter fic loosely inspired by Carrie Hope Fletcher's song '123' and centred around the complicated effects of Curt's relationship with Owen on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Explosions and Compromises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fragile working relationship is put under strain when a building explodes.

“What the hell was that?”

Smoke. Flames. Another dull boom and crash of an explosion somewhere in the compound.

“I just saved your life, Agent. You’d think that you would be a little more grateful.”

Panting. Huffing. Two silhouettes fleeing desperately from the wreckage. 

“You’re fucking unprofessional. Ah yes, let’s just make a safe escape- and blow up the entire compound while we do so! Great idea Owen! Now what do we do?”

This mission wasn’t going well for Curt. It had been annoying when he had been partnered with this arrogant, British, spy but now he was standing in the shadow of a burning building. With lungs full of acidic smoke and no clue of what to do next. And of course Owen was acting like there was nothing wrong with the situation.

“I don’t know man.” Owen shrugged and pulled a cigarette carton out his jacket pocket. Curt looked away, disgusted and fiddled with his watch; hopefully he’d get enough signal to establish a rendezvous point. No such luck. The blue ‘no signal’ light blinked steadily on the grey face.

He cursed. “Well what do you normally do?” Owen didn’t answer, and instead blew a thin stream of smoke to match the inferno behind them. Curt cursed again. “You’re no help.”

Standing outside the warehouse would be a guaranteed way of getting caught. Anyone with a brain could deduce that, but apparently Owen didn’t seem in a rush to go anywhere, which probably said a lot about him. The thought was almost enough to make Curt crack a smile, but he was too focused. A siren blared from somewhere in the compound behind them. Dogs were barking and men were shouting in the distance. A searchlight far away to the left of them flickered to life and swung around, the beam following the border fence. It crept towards where Curt and Owen were standing.

“Shit.” Owen stamped his barely smoked cigarette into the earth and spat. “Curt we gotta run.”

“No fucking shit. Now you have a plan.”

“Well I had to take a break and remember the directions to the nearest safe-house- you can’t just expect me to run off without direction!” Owen took off in, what seemed to Curt, an arbitrary direction, but he had no choice but to follow his partner. Not that Owen felt much like a partner. Curt didn’t feel like he could trust Owen with an empty bullet clip, let alone his life. Still, he ran after him, holding his jacket collar over his head as gunfire began to pepper the earth where they had stood.

****

The safe-house turned out to be rather nice. It was owned by an elderly Italian lady who, despite not speaking a word of English, offered beds, food, and wine without any questions, and even offered to give their gear a clean and put in a load for laundry. At least, Curt had to trust that was what she had offered them as she spoke exclusively to Owen… Which wasn’t surprising, as Curt spoke no Italian and Owen seemed to be fluent.

“Pretty nice place, eh?” Owen, with a glass of red wine in each hand and at least one inside him already, plonked himself down on the low couch that Curt had been sulking on. He handed one of the glasses to Curt. There was a low coffee table between the sofa and a small stone fireplace, in which a fire was crackling merrily, which displayed a meal as large and fanciful as would be expected in a renaissance painting. There were roasted meats and plates piled high with bread rolls and fruits, and candles of varying heights and colours. It seemed too romantic for Curt’s taste.

“Yeah.” He took the wine from Owen and a bread roll from the nearest pile. “It’s alright.”

“Are you kidding?” Owen reclined, drinking from his glass. “It’s beautiful. And free alcohol- I thought that would make a drunkard like you happy.”

Curt sighed inwardly; Owen was too happy and jovial for him to deal with, especially when he’d risked their lives and jobs just a few hours earlier. Adding to the fact that he had already opened the wine on the table before Owen had joined him and the alcohol was already fueling his anger, and it didn’t look like this conversation would end well. Instead of answering, he huffed and refused to look at the man. Owen’s face fell.

“You’re still angry with me aren’t you?” Curt didn’t answer. “I don’t actually know why you’re angry with me- I only did what needed to be done. If you understood, you’d know.”

That was a jab at his training, Curt knew. They’d only been partnered for a month, and a few days on this mission, but Owen had already undermined Curt’s training and professionalism multiple times and it was driving him crazy. There was an awkward silence. Owen downed the rest of his wine and swore under his breath. Curt took another bread roll from the pile without touching the first one, trying to stop his anger from bubbling over. He counted to ten and back down again, just like his mother used to tell him. The fire crackled, happy as ever, in the hearth.

“You didn’t ‘do what needed to be done’ Owen.” Curt broke the silence, keeping his voice as level as possible. It was difficult to not explode at his partner. But alcohol, anger, and more alcohol was never a good mix. “You were reckless and you risked my life as well as your own. And now neither of our teams know where we are.”

Owen exhaled sharply. His brow furrowed and he set his wine down too violently. A few drops of the red drink sploshed onto the wooden table. “Well it’s hardly my fault there’s no signal. We are in the middle of the bloody alps after all.”

“It’s still your fault that we had to flee from the compound in the first place- I was just about to cut out the power and you had to go and detonate the bomb- if you’d just let me have two more minutes we could’ve gotten away without them even knowing we were there. But no, now we have an entire organisation on our tails.”

It was getting harder not to yell at Owen, especially as he seemed no sign of ever apologising. It was looking less and less likely that he would admit that he hadn’t handled escaping very well. Just keep counting Curt told himself.

“Look Curt, just because you’re not happy with how I handled things doesn’t mean my way is wrong.” He could only see Owen’s knees and the slender-fingered hands that resting on them. They showed no signs of anger; a complete contrast to Curt’s hands which were balled into fists in his lap. “And what was so wrong about showing the bad guys a thing or two?”

“We could have died Owen!” Curt snapped, turning back to face his partner so quickly that Owen jumped. “I could have died! You could have died!” He felt bad about shouting in the Elderly Lady’s home, but he was too wound up to stop. Shouting was an explosion.

And it felt good.

“And why are you so concerned about me dying, huh?” Owen was shouting too now, his face flushed red and beaded with sweat. A vein on his temple was close to popping. Curt reckoned he didn’t look much better.

“Because-“ He faltered, and if his face wasn’t flushed with anger before, he definitely felt it flush now. “Because-“

“Yes?”

“Because part of me cares about you okay?” He stared at his hands, unwilling to look up. “You may be the most annoying person I’ve ever worked with, and I may not trust you with anything more dangerous than a screwdriver, but I do care. And not just because the death of my partner on a mission would look bad on my record.”

There was a quiet knock on the door.

“Scusami?” The landlord peeped around the door frame, thin wire-framed glasses reflecting the light from the fire. She beckoned Owen over, who got up with a quiet sigh. Curt tried not to frown and look like a grumpy child.

They exchanged a few short sentences after which Owen thanked her and moved to close the door. The lady seemed to get the hint and took her leave, which left Curt and Owen alone again in a very quiet room.

“What did she want?” Curt asked after a few minutes of awkward silence. Owen had sat back down again but didn’t look at Curt, who was trying to drink as much wine as possible.

“Just wanted to see what the noise was about and to let us know our room is ready.”

“Oh.” He poured another glass of wine. It was red, which wasn’t Curt’s favourite, but he’d rather drink it than stay sober. “What did you say? About the noise, I mean.” Owen frowned. “I’m not saying it again you know. I don’t need to fuel your ego.”

“You don’t need to Curt.”

Another silence. Curt wanted to escape, even if that meant heading upstairs to bed early. Owen clearly wasn’t in the mood for talking, and Curt didn’t really want to keep trying. Besides, his head was beginning to spin, and he didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

“Right, well,” He stood up, setting his empty glass on the table and brushing non-existent crumbs off his trousers. “I’m going to head up to our room. I’d rather not get in another argument, and it looks like you want to be alone for a bit.”

“Curt wait.” Owen stood up as he got the door and was about to turn the handle, making him stop in his tracks. He didn’t sound angry, but Curt still didn’t think the chances of getting an apology were too high. “You still don’t understand why I used the bomb do you?”

Curt shook his head to clear it and hoped Owen didn’t take it as a no. He didn’t really want to understand beyond the sparse explanation he had already given him. “To make sure we got out safely, yeah I get it.”

“That’s not the only reason.” Owen grumbled. He half-sat-half-leant against the arm of the couch and folded his arms across his chest. “You remember what we went in there for, right?”

“Floorplans for the HeadQuarters we’re raiding next week.” Curt was very close to rolling his eyes. He just wanted to go to bed now, but Owen seemed intent of grilling him.

“Right, and blueprints for Russian spyware. What you didn’t see was, when you were fiddling with the fuse boxes I was scanning the computer systems. All the physical blueprints we retrieved and more were backed up on the system. So we had to blow up the compound to stop the Russians from using them.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Maybe next time you should just trust me.”

Curt felt his cheeks flush. He twisted the door handle. “Goodnight Owen.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Once outside the room, Curt leant against the wall. He wanted to punch something. Of course Owen had a good reason for blowing the compound up. And now, with his stubbornness and arrogance, he’d probably hurt his partner badly. He told himself not to care, but he really did care about Owen. Yes they fought a lot, and yes the other agent made Curt feel inferior, especially on missions, but there was something about him that Curt liked, even if he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Fuck me.”

One. He couldn’t actually be- no. Two. Curt pushed whatever feelings he thought he had for Owen far down to where they could never escape or bubble up. Three. It wasn’t professional.

And besides, even if Owen didn’t already hate him, Curt had hurt him. He didn’t blame the man for wanting to be alone.

“And I don’t even know if he’s like me.” He murmured to himself, shrugging off the wall and scrambling up the narrow staircase to their supposedly shared room. “Mega, you’re drunk. You can deal with this in the morning.”

****

“So how did you sleep?”

Badly. When he’d gotten up to their room, Curt hadn’t realised that there was only one bed, and had collapsed and promptly gone to sleep. Which meant he was woken up half an hour later by Owen roughly shoving him to one side of the bed. It had taken him a good few minutes to become aware that he was now sharing a bed with the man he’d been shouting at not too long ago, and by that point Owen was already snoring, so for the rest of the night he’d tried to sleep but couldn’t due to the fact that he was lying very still. By the time Owen had rolled out of bed and gone to shower, Curt felt like death.

“Not too bad.” He lied. “You?”

“Could have been worse.” Owen seemed happier this morning. Well, he wasn’t scowling or ignoring Curt at least. “How’s the hangover?”

Curt rubbed his eyebrows. “How did you know I have a hangover?”

“It’s pretty obvious given the amount of wine you drank last night. And you’re nursing a headache. Is there anything more I need to add?” He was smirking. Of course he was. Curt sighed.

“No that pretty much covers it.” He finished putting his socks on and stood up. He allowed himself a quick glance at his partner who had been sitting on the opposite side of the bed and therefore out of Curt’s line of sight. What he’d expected to see was Owen wearing last night’s clothes and damp hair. What he actually saw was Owen with a towel wrapped around his waist with shower water still running off his bare shoulders. Curt wanted to throw up a little. He quickly looked away.

“Look, Owen, I’m sorry about yesterday.” He noticed Owen’s shoulders stiffen, but he couldn’t see his face. “I should have trusted you more.”

“You should have.” He stood up and managed to swiftly change into his trousers without exposing himself. Curt wished he didn’t care that Owen was still shirtless. “But I don’t blame you for being angry- it’s not like I’d told you what I was doing.”

Curt managed a small smile but stared at his hands. “Can we agree that neither of us were very professional yesterday and move on?”

“Yeah, we can.” He could hear the smile in Owen’s voice, even if he couldn’t bring himself to see it. “Curt?”

He wouldn’t look up. He couldn’t. Memories of last night’s thoughts in the hall flooded back, and Curt knew that if he were to look up now he’d be bright red.

“Mm?”

He heard Owen shuffle about as he sat down again, presumably to find his shirt. There was a small window opposite the side of the bed which Curt could just see out of. It had been too dark last night to properly see the surrounding landscape, but it was beautiful. Green trees gave way to grey rocky mountain sides which faded into purple peaks.

“Curt?” His thoughts were interrupted by movement beside him as Owen sat down on the bed about a foot away from Curt. “Look at me.”

He did. Owen’s face was serious but his eyebrows knitted together and Curt wasn’t surprised. They’d been working together consistently for a month and Curt knew he’d never behaved like this in front of Owen before. Even if his partner didn’t care about him, Curt didn’t blame him for being confused.

“Are you feeling okay?” His voice was rough and definitely not gentle, but he sounded sincere enough.

“Just this hangover.” Curt managed a weak smile, and for the first time in his life he was glad he had drunk too much the night before.

“Okay.” Owen didn’t sound convinced. “Can we try working together? I know you like arguing with me, and I find incredibly fun to tease you, but I don’t think it’s beneficial. We have bigger problems, like the raid next week.”

Cynthia had sounded worried when Curt had last spoken to her, and it had crossed his mind that there had to be a good reason for their partnership. It seemed logical. And, privately, he would much rather be Owen’s friend than begrudging partner.

“We can try.” Curt smiled genuinely at Owen for the first time since yesterday morning. “Although are you sure you can give up picking out all of my flaws?”

Owen smirked back. Curt was beginning to realise that smirking came more easily to Owen than smiling.

“I’m sure I can. That is, if you can find it in yourself to stop protesting against everything I do.”

“Easy. Done.” 

Owen held his hand, bridging the gap between them, and Curt shook it. An agreement not to fight wasn’t really the forging of a friendship, but he reckoned it was a good start.


	2. Starts and Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years can mean a lot of difference, especially for Curt Mega. Grappling with memories of the worst night of his life, he seeks closure from the one place he probably shouldn't have visited.

“ _I’d never let you down!_ ”

It was a mistake in hindsight. The banana. The safety barriers.

Curt had been so sure it would all work out. Owen came to his rescue yet again, terrible accent and all, and this was how he’d thanked him. More arguments and a… No. It felt like a dream. One minute Owen had been fingertips away from Curt as they’d hurried up and out of the tech lab. The next he was falling. Curt had lunged forward in a vain attempt at grabbing his coat. But it was no use. He was gone, tumbling over the edge of the stairs to what Curt could only imagine was a cold, harsh, concrete floor. And a sudden stop.

Curt fell back against the wall, hand clamped across his mouth to hold back the scream that tore at his throat. A low siren was blaring throughout the compound and through the men shouting and the gun fire he was almost certain he could hear the ticking of the bomb several stories below. As he wanted to rush to the side of the stairwell and scour the floors below for any sign of his best friend, but he couldn’t will his body to move from where he was frozen. Nor did he have the luxury of time to wait and pray for a sign of life. Anyway, he reasoned, if Owen hadn’t already been killed by the fall he would be blown to bits any second now.

As would Curt if he didn’t move. One, two, three, and he took off, tearing up and around the stairwell that wrapped around the interior of the facility. He reckoned he still had about a minute to get to the exit at the top where, hopefully, the stolen jeep would still be hidden in the bushes nearby. But there was still a long way to go. Curt bit back tears as he dodged around two Russians. He managed to glimpse into the central column where all the floors below were mostly visible and there was no sign of a body. While he still held onto a small shard of hope that Owen had managed to crawl to safety, it was more likely his lifeless body had been hauled somewhere by men who were now hot on Curt’s tail. He shook his head. No time for false fantasies.

The Russians were now pursuing him. They were unarmed which was odd seeing as they were employed in a weapons facility, but Curt didn’t stop to contemplate it. He was almost at the top now with only three more flights of stairs to go. Now only two more. With one final push he broke into the cold night air, sprinting around the walkway at the top. His heavy footsteps were loud on the thin metal flooring. It would be pointless to try and make a stealthy escape. So he barged past a guard, swiping his baton as he passed, before spotting a steel guy-line. It was one of several that served to keep the silo upright in high winds, and to Curt it was a blessing. He hooked the baton over the wire and gripped it firmly with a hand on either side. Behind him the two men that had chased him up the stairs were wheezing towards him and the guard he had pushed past had called in three others for backup. They were closing in on him fast and with no time to lose Curt kicked off the side of the concrete building.

For a few seconds there was nothing but freezing air pummelling his cheeks and whipping his hair backwards. He could see nothing ahead of him but blackness and wheeling lights. There was the whiz of the wooden baton against the metal wire and men shouting in Russian and garbled English and somewhere far below were engine purrs and barking hounds. For the briefest moment Curt remembered all the times he’d escaped compounds, headquarters, fortresses, and prisons with Owen by his side. A ripple of pain spread across his torso. The moment ended when his feet crashed against frozen soil, but his legs felt weak. With Owen gone was it really worth making an escape? As he stumbled to his feet Curt wondered if it would really be easier to turn himself in.

But then there was Cynthia. And his mother. And, as annoying as she was, Barb. He didn’t want to hurt them. And Owen wouldn’t want him to give up, especially when the safety of the world had depended on them escaping with the blueprints. They were still in his pocket, thank god.

At first he fell forward a few feet. The baton was pretty much useless as a weapon now- singed and worn away by friction on one side and splintered at either end- and he tossed the mangled wood aside, reaching in his pocket for the cool familiarity of his gun. It seemed to help calm the thoughts swirling inside his head as he sprinted once more for the cover of the twisting, tangled forest at the edge of the compound. He crawled under one wire fence, scrambled over another, and made a terrible leap over the ditch that served as the outermost fence and plunged into the woods. 

Somewhere out here was the car. From there he could rendezvous with Barb. And break the bad news. Curt let out a sob. Turning back to look at the silo was a mistake. Smoke poured out of the open top like tobacco smoke out of a pipe. It billowed and puffed and turned the otherwise clear night sky into an acrid, hazy mess.

He was dead. He had to be. Not even Owen Carvour could have escaped that alive.

Curt knew he should keep moving. They were bound to still be looking for him. But his whole body was trembling. His chest ached. He noticed the burning sensation in his throat before he registered the choked sobs that wracked his body or the salty tears cutting rivers through the grime on his face.

Owen was gone.

And Curt broke.

***

“Why are we here Curt?”

It was cold. It always was here, but today it seemed even more biting than Curt had remembered, even in late spring. Curt shook his head to clear the painful images from his head and glanced around. At his cheeks weren’t cold. The beard was at least good for that.

“I need closure.”

It had been one of his demands when Cynthia had negotiated his return to the American Secret Service. He’d sworn his allegiance again like he had as a rowdy teenager, been sent to a boot camp to get his body back into shape (“Beer bellies aren’t good for chasing down assassins” Cynthia had stated when he’d protested), and had tried his best to settle back into the routine of paperwork and briefings. All he’d asked for in return was a trip to Russian soil. Which hadn’t been an easy request. International rivalries tend to fuck up tourist holidays.

And here they were. Barb had been sent along with him, as well as a small team of field agents and personal assistants back at the base camp, to ensure Curt’s safety. Not that that was required; the whole compound had been deserted for years. Even though only one tower had been destroyed, the blast had travelled through the maze of underground tunnels linking the other five together. It had inevitably damaged the storage units for the nuclear weapon prototypes, leaking the toxic radiation into the air. No one wanted to continue research here after that.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Barb touched his arm lightly, a concerned frown contorting her face behind those hideous, thick rimmed glasses. “You don’t have to, you know.”

Curt frowned at the rubble at his feet. He didn’t have to, no. But he wanted to. If he was ever going to at least try to move on from what had happened that night, he needed to know what had happened to his partner. Even if that meant digging through radioactive rubble to find a four year old corpse.

“I’ll be okay.” He turned to smile at Barb but her expression suggested it was more of a grimace. “If you want to wait in the car you can.”

“Uh uh, no way mister. I know you like your privacy but I’m under strict orders from Cynthia not to let you out of my sight. Besides, it’s dangerous out here.”

“It’s deserted.” Curt scoffed, but Barb just glared and shook her head. It was clear she wasn’t going to let him do this by himself, and secretly Curt was glad he didn’t have to do it alone.

The ruins of the weapons facility stood half as high as its neighbours. It looked a little like a broken bottle, with a jagged upper edge and shattered windows, while chunks of concrete that had made up the walls at the top littered the ground below. The largest had fallen so that it leant against the side of the building, leaving a gap underneath just big enough for an adult man to stand almost fully upright. As they approached the building, Barb used her watch to scan the area and suggested that they check there was no one hiding in the lean-to for an ambush.

“It’s empty.” Curt reported after a thorough scout around the small space. “But it’s evidently been used by people as a shelter. More than once, if I’m right. I found this-“ He held out a small silver flask to Barb, who took it and studied it under a small looking glass, “-hidden under twigs and moss. It’s pretty beaten up.”

It was true. It looked as though it had been a fine hip flask at some point, but it was now just a scrap of useless metal. Where once had supposedly been leather grips were sticky residues of glue, the screw on lid had been lost, and the metal itself had been beaten and broken into a crumpled sheet that vaguely had the same shape as a flask.

“I wonder how long it’s been there.” Barb murmured as she inspected the metal. She hummed slightly as she did so, which was eerie in the dead silence of the compound. Curt turned and made his way across the broken concrete rubble towards a gap in the wall of the silo where the concrete had been split harshly in half. Presumably the explosion had shifted the foundations too much.

“Curt!”

He turned back sharply, not quite sure what to expect but fearing the worst. A wave of relief flowed over him when he saw Barb hurriedly scrambling over the rocks. She was having a difficult time as she was holding the broken flask with one hand and having to use the other to steady her as she climbed.

“What’s the matter Barb?” Curt asked as soon as she was near enough for him to not need to shout. Although the whole area was devoid of any signs of human life, he was reluctant to raise his voice.

“It’s yours.” She was breathing heavily and her face was red. Barb clearly wasn’t used to excess strenuous activity.

“What is?”

“The flask. Look.” Barb had pried apart the squashed metal that had once been the bottom of the hip flask and the initials imprinted into the silver plating were clear as day.

C.M.

Curt was speechless for a few seconds. He took the flask gingerly from Barb as though it might explode and turned it over in his hands. Now that he was looking closer at it, he definitely recognised it as his favourite flask. The pattern of the glue stains matched where the leather had been. The engravings in the silver on the top were identical. It was certainly the flask he’d had in his jacket pocket that night. The one he’d given to Owen during their escape.

“I gave this to him right before he died.” It was barely more than a whisper, but it echoed like a shout in this godforsaken place. “It was whiskey. He didn’t like whiskey, but he drank it anyway. I hadn’t even noticed that he didn’t give it back because I assumed we’d be sharing it again when we got out.”

“I really don’t want to rush you hun, but we only have another hour before we need to get back.” It was true. Curt had to catch a plane to Budapest that evening and Barb was needed back at HQ. Just like the last time Curt had been here, he didn’t have much time. He slid the flask into his pocket.

Inside the broken silo there was more concrete rubble, but also broken technology, scraps of metal, and splintered wood. Moss had grown up the inside of the wall where a pipe had been broken and dripped water constantly. The steady plip plip plip was a welcome break in the silence at first, but quickly became annoying. Vines covered the majority of the remaining concrete.

They scoured the ground floor and basement where the lab had been, but most of the bodies they found (there weren’t many, but enough to make Barb run for the nearest container to vomit into) wore the tattered remains of soviet uniforms. Curt couldn’t see any Brown jackets anywhere.

The safety barricades that Owen had desperately tried to convince Curt to close must have rusted partway closed in the four years. They stuck out into the central column, roughly three meters out of their housing as far as Curt could tell. The electricity system had been fried, so fixing them was out of the question. Curt felt sick to his stomach; if Owen had hit one of them on the way down it would have hurt. A lot. And all these years he'd prayed his partner's death had been quick and painless.

They slowly made their way up the rickety stairway that spiralled up to the top- or at least used to. When the silo had the collapsed the metal stairs had been torn from the wall and twisted, much like a small metal spring would be stretched with the right amount of force. It made accessing floors above the third floor impossible. So they scoured the second and third floors on the off chance that Owen had been dragged somewhere by the Russians to die.

Still they found nothing.

When they reached the ground floor again, Barb’s earpiece crackled to life. Curt couldn’t anything but muffled buzzing, but he could tell from Barb’s expression that their time had run out.

“Time to go?” He mouthed, but Barb flapped her hand in his direction. One of the field agents must have been giving her an earful.

“Okay we’ll be back shortly.” She quipped into the microphone on her wrist before breaking the connection- effectively hanging up. “Come on Curt it’s time to go.”

Curt nodded and followed her out of the silo. His head was racing and his heart was heavy. It had been a foolish hope to think that finding Owen’s body would be closure, especially as they had failed to do even that. Instead of trying to move on, Curt felt himself gripping to the memory of Owen even tighter and felt guiltier doing so. He remembered looking back at the weapons facility that night hoping against hope that somehow Owen had survived. The flask had given him even more hope, and he would’ve expected that not finding Owen’s body would have given him even more hope. But he just felt empty. Because he was truly gone. And it was more likely that Owen had dropped the flask and a Russian lackey had picked it up.

Once back at the car Curt hauled himself into the driver’s seat while Barb pulled out the map. She place a hand on his knee.

“I know you’re disappointed Curt. You wanted to find him and call it a day on this whole mess. I know it’s hurting you because I can see it.”

“Is this pep talk going anywhere Barb?”

She huffed. To Curt it almost sounded like one of Owen's huffs. “I’m just trying to say that it’s okay to be upset. But you do have a job to do. And I know it’s hard, but Owen would’ve wanted you to be the best spy you can be, in memory of him. I think he’d be proud of you for coming back. I am.”

She smiled, and Curt smiled softly back. Yes it hurt, but he knew he had made the right decision, even if he had made it a little late.

“Thanks Barb.”

“Anytime Mega.” She smoothed the map against the dashboard. “Now let’s get back to base before we have our heads bitten off by Cynthia’s crones.”

He twisted the key in the ignition and the car hummed to life. Barb was already spouting directions like they were items off a shopping list and most of them went over Curt’s head. He was more preoccupied with the details of the bomb recover he had to do that evening. It would be hard to move on from Owen, but at least he could move on with his job.

It was something to focus on, at least.


	3. Plots and Loopholes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the final showdown. Curt and Owen go head to head for the last time; will it end in tears or heartbreak?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during One Step Ahead and the subsequent scene, but for the most part it will not quote the show. Personally I don't enjoy fanfiction that directly quotes from the source material for most of the work , and so I have tried to recreate the emotion from the scene without directly quoting it. I hope it doesn't offend anyone.

This was wrong. Everything had gone so terribly, _terribly wrong_.

And everything that Curt had told himself over the past four years had crumbled into ashes. He desperately wanted more time to wrap his head around it, and perhaps nurse a beer or two, but time was something he definitely did not have. Tatiana had told him to go. And now he didn’t really he really didn’t have many choices, aside from chasing the ghost of a man ahead of him.

He tore after the only other boat on the lake. In any other scenario the adrenaline would already be coursing through his veins. Excitement and exhilaration would be fuelling every action. But this wasn’t any ordinary scenario, and instead of buzzing, Curt could feel nothing but dread. The water was choppy and the small motorboat he’d commandeered was difficult to steer with one hand, but Curt needed the precious little time he had time to go through the ammunition he had on him. With one hand firmly gripped to the steering wheel, he checked his belt for clips: two full regular, including one of the two Barb had brought, one half full clip, and… That was interesting.

Tatiana had pressed something into his hand before she’d left the war room and he hadn’t been able to get a proper look at it until now. But now he pulled the clip from the pocket he’d shoved it in and brought it up to look at the writing on the side while keeping half an eye on Owen’s boat not too far away. Curt’s eyes boggled.

**_Ich Luge _c. 1939__ **

Now that was very interesting. But he couldn’t do anything with them now, and his pistol had a full round. If he could just pierce the outboard motors or stop the propellers on Owen’s boat he could catch him up. And then, well he hadn’t quite figured that bit out yet. Maybe he’d hold him at gunpoint, and arrest him. Maybe he’d just improvise. But try as he might he couldn’t land a single shot on the boat ahead; every bullet fell beneath the waves with an only just audible splosh. He could almost hear Owen’s laughter over the roar or the engines.

“International Weapons Museum huh?” Owen was drawing closer to the shore, and Curt muttered under his breath, barely holding back a laugh. A squat building, altogether nondescript if it hadn’t been for the large black writing on the front, loomed up as he steered towards the stony beach at the edge of the lake. “Not at all ostentatious Owen.”

Still he raced inside, after driving the boat up harshly onto the gravel beach. He yanked down a crudely formed pike from a display in the entrance hall, but it seemed Owen had the same idea.

 _Time to save the world again_.

“Not giving up yet then Curt?” Owen spun the pike deftly. It looked like he was born wielding weapons and Curt didn’t know whether he was impressed or scared for his own life. Still, he couldn’t let his concerns show. Espionage was all about subtlety, and Curt was clearly out of practice.

“You wish.” Curt brought his pike squarely across Owen’s. It sent a jolt through his forearms, and for a moment Curt felt wretched. This was not a scenario he’d ever imagined, and it was jarring. Owen scoffed, making him wonder if the other man could sense his hesitation.

“Typical Curt; never backing down.” Owen swiped back and looked as natural as he had crouched low over motorcycle. He made wide sweeping arcs with the pike and Curt did his best to spar and fend them off.

“Typical jerk.” He spat back, taking a few steps forward and cutting under Owen’s defence. Not that he could land any hits on the man. Owen retorted something Curt couldn’t quite hear and brought two strikes down on Curt’s pike. It sent more jolts right through to his spine.

Owen was clearly the better fighter. He pressed Curt backwards through the entrance hall into a room filled with suits of armour and iron swords of all shapes and sizes. Unsteady on his feet, Curt was almost pushed back into a rack of daggers and broadswords. It was better to lose the pike than go down with it, so instead he grabbed one of the more mundane swords and lunged at Owen, who only just blocked the thrust. Chips of woods flew as Curt pulled the blade out of the stick and he was vaguely aware of Owen discarding the primitive weapon in favour of a fancy shamshir. Which was bloody typical of him.

“You don’t bring a sword to a pike fight, love.” Owen grinned slyly. Curt had to admit that stung. It made him want to drop his weapon and beg for another way of settling this. 

But he couldn’t. A good spy never would.

Although whether Curt was a good spy or not was becoming more and more questionable; he was hopeless at close range combat. Owen was clearly calling the shots and it enraged him to think the other man was going easy on him. His ego had definitely taken a beaten in the last few days, but this was something else entirely.

“Don’t deny it Curt.” Owen laughed after backing Curt into a corner between a display case of Revolution-era guns and a mannequin dressed in period clothes. “I was always better than you. And now that you’ve let yourself go, it’s clearer than ever.”

Curt spat blood at his feet. That was worrying, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Like Owen smashing the glass display front with his blade and tossing one of the rifles at him and grabbing another one for himself. Baffled, Curt scowled and reluctantly took the gun.

“You’re _enjoying_ this aren’t you?” He began pump the gun powder. It was a nuisance, but it would most likely be over two minutes until he could fire it. “Finally the opportunity to pit yourself against me? Finally getting the chance to see me fail?”

“Oh this is just the beginning Mega.” Owen took aim and Curt followed suit. Two loud pops echoed through the hall but there was no sting and no blood.

“ _Shit_.”

“ _Fuck_.”

They cursed in unison. Curt smirked, Owen smiled coldly. And the dance of pumping and tamping the guns began again. Once again they both missed. It was laughable. Finally, in the craft of using ancient rifles in combat, they were both matched.

Owen cursed again, abandoned his gun, and pelted towards the back doors of the hall so that Curt had no choice but to follow. He struggled to free the pistol in his pocket, but it was no use. Not only was it incredibly difficult to get to while running (he should have thought of that before stuffing it in there), but as soon as he pursued Owen through the doors he ground to a complete stop. The ceiling of the next room was much higher and for good reason.

“Oh hell no. Owen you can’t be serious.”

But Owen was already climbing up into the cockpit of a small fighter jet, smiling as he kicked away the ladder so that Curt couldn’t follow him. The plane didn’t look that old, which was odd seeing as most of the other exhibits in the museum were ancient. But there was no time to figure out why it was here. Owen had somehow gotten the engine running and the plane shot forward. It broke free from the wires it had been hanging from in seconds and hurtled towards the far wall. Curt could only gape as Owen expertly steered the plane for the largest window and glass shards rained down. Curt held the collar of his jacket over his head to shield himself against the glass shards, and after a quick survey of the rest of the aircraft in the room, the World War One Fighter Biplane looked in the best condition.

The Biplane turned out to not be as fast as the plane Owen had stolen, but it was decent to fly and he managed to keep the smoke trail left by the other plane in his sight despite the large jumpstart Owen had gotten. In fact, there was a fairly decent auto-cruise feature (meaning his foot on the steering wheel) so that he could reload his gun. The _Ich Luge _bullets in his pocket were tempting. It was too soft of him, but he needed options. And slipping one _Ich Luge _in with a full round of regular bullets gave him options.____

Curt realised a little too late that he had no idea how much fuel the Biplane had, or even why the planes had fuel anyway. The dial on the console was seemingly broken as the needle was permanently stuck on empty. But in the end none of that really mattered. And Curt recognised Owen’s intended destination long before they landed.

How could he not? He’d been there only days ago.

Sprawling below them was that infernal compound, ruined weapons tower and all. Curt could imagine Owen’s sadistic laugh as the plane in front of him dipped and landed on the thin concrete road that ran down the centre of the compound. Little did the British prat know that Curt had made peace with this place. But maybe Owen hadn’t.

“Try and keep up Curt!” Owen called in a sing-song voice over his shoulder as he led the way to the ruined tower. Curt had barely touched down and stepped out of the plane before the teasing started up again. It was tiring, but more than that, it hurt. Aside from the glaringly obvious skewed morals and the hard glint in his eyes that used to be a cheerful sparkle, the Owen that stood before Curt now on the twisted metal staircase didn’t seem any different to the Owen Curt had known four years ago. The Owen he loved.

And Curt was now angry. It burnt with familiar fire in his stomach. Fire that coursed through his veins and burned his knuckles.

“Fuck!” Owen cursed, holding a hand to his jaw where Curt had punched him. He barely had time to stand up straight again before he was clutching the other cheek.

“This is it.” Curt hissed, pushing the other man back. The stairs didn’t climb higher than a few floors up. If Owen fell again, he wouldn’t be too hurt. But Curt didn’t care. “We’re done.” Owen spat back, lashing out and slapping Curt who stumbled and staggered down a few steps.

“We’re through.” Curt pulled out his gun and cocked it. It was foreign to hold a gun to this man, more so than it had to shoot at his boat earlier, and Curt didn’t know if he could trust his hand not to drop the pistol.

Owen didn’t seemed too alarmed. He already had a loaded pistol trained on Curt’s forehead. Curt blinked. This would be the end of it all, he knew. One of them would be dead before midnight.

The sky above had darkened, and fiery stars glowed faintly. There was only the faint glow of peach on the horizon to suggest the sun had ever been in the sky. Dark shadows loomed over Owen’s face, drawing out the harsh line of his nose and his jaw. Had his features really been so harsh? Curt couldn’t remember. All he could focus on was the gun in his hand and the face of the man he aimed at. His hand started to shake.

“So.” The compound was so quiet that Owen’s voice echoed in the darkness. The man standing on the ruined stairs above Curt now was a far cry from the sarcastic, quick-tongued, almost jovial, man he’d fought mere minutes ago. The Owen he’d known had been buried under a layer of hatred before, but now he was completely gone. Stripped away. And now only the husk of a man was left. “This is your final bow. How does it feel Curt?”

“How does betrayal feel?” Curt scowled. With the small flight of steps between them he had to crane his neck to see Owen’s face clearly. “It stings.”

Owen scoffed heartlessly. Curt felt like he’d been stabbed. “I bet that tiny brain of yours is trying to figure out how to fix this. But I can already tell you it’s hopeless. When this is over there’ll be no agency. No Cynthia to run to.”

“What do you see in CHIMERA Owen?” He was stalling. But he didn’t want his brains to blown out just yet. He wished he could conjure up something more skillful than point-blank questions, but Owen had been right. Smarts were not his strongest suit. “Why do you want all the secrets in the world? Why do you want to destroy everything we ever believed in?”

“Everything _you _believed in. I don’t share those beliefs anymore. You would know that if you’d been paying attention.” Owen spat and then sighed, exasperated. “Secrets are the new currency. Loyalty was outdated years ago. And I’m afraid you’re stuck in the past Curt. A caveman, if you will.”__

Curt inhaled sharply. The fledgling of an idea formed at the back of his mind. And there was ammunition stored behind his tongue, he need only open his mouth to fire. If he could just find the words.

“ _All_ secrets? Are you sure you want every last secret revealed, for all heads of state and people of note to see?” Curt smiled slightly and narrowed his eyes. Owen knew exactly what he was dancing around and it was clear to see. He was squirming and the gun that had been aimed squarely at his forehead had dipped by a fraction of an inch. “I can imagine the scandal now.”

“Enough!” It was less of a shout and more of a livid roar. Owen stepped down forcefully and pressed the cold barrel of the gun into the soft skin of Curt’s forehead. “Those secrets are dead now. You left me for dead and drank yourself into a stupor.” He took in a deep breath before punctuating every word. “You. Don’t. Get. To. Say. That.”

Curt tried not to laugh. It was entirely the wrong situation to laugh at, he knew, but his whole body was tense and every exhale was like opening a valve. Instead he focused his energy on staring intently at Owen’s face. There was a time when they could, and quite often would, communicate with expressions alone. It was useful on missions, especially in fieldwork, but that felt like decades ago. And the plaintive look he gave his old friend was only met with a cold glare.

“Can I not talk about it? It’s my secret too.” Curt tilted his head and the gun tilted with him. A deep breath. “Our secret.”

Owen shook his head. “Here’s some advice Curt. It’s called moving on.” He stepped back and Curt caught sight of the scars that pockmarked his face. And hands. Where his skin had once been smooth were dozens and dozens of tiny scars webbing his cheeks and spanning his jawline. Curt wanted to ask, but he got the distinct feeling he wasn’t allowed to ask those sorts of questions anymore. “Do give it a try.”

With the imminent threat of death removed from his forehead, Curt ran through mental calculations, saw his chance and took it. Owen still had the gun held out at arm’s reach. And he wouldn’t be expecting Curt to shoot the gun out of his hand.

So he acted quickly, pulling the trigger at the precise moment that would send the bullet on a path to hit the trigger-guard. And, predictably, Owen flinched, letting go of the gun and losing his weapon. It flew in a near-perfect arc over their heads, landing somewhere in the ruins of the tech lab far below.

A smile hoisted grimly upon his lips. Owen baulked. Curt stepped up towards him, their roles reversed now. Grim determination setting in.

“Curt. Wait.”

The pipe still dripped somewhere nearby.

“Yes?”

The moon had shown himself, shining a pale light into the broken silo.

“You won’t kill me.”

Maybe, maybe not. Curt frowned, thinking of his gun. The bullet loaded, pistol cocked. His hand started to shake, and with his finger on the trigger the wrong twitch could end badly. And Curt wasn’t entirely sure of what he wanted to do now. The idea in the back of his head had blossomed, like a snowball running down a hill, but it didn’t seem sensible. It was a pipe dream. Or something you’d see in movies. Surely it wouldn’t actually work in real life? “Why won’t I?”

Only then did Owen crack. His mocking smile vanished. Shoulders slumped. Eyes cast downwards. Most people wouldn’t even notice, but Curt knew this man like the back of his hand. He knew his mannerisms like a blueprint, and even four years apart and a betrayal later couldn’t change that.

“You know it won’t stop CHIMERA.” Owen voice wavered as if he hadn’t even convinced himself, and Curt couldn’t really care less about the organisation that took his boyfriend away from him. A cruel, short laugh like a bark escaped his lips.

“You’re wrong.” No response from Owen. Curt lowered his gun, and fiddled with something he knew Owen wouldn’t understand. “Owen why didn’t you call me?”

“What?”

“After your fall. You could have called someone; me, Cynthia, anyone at MI6. We would have helped you. And I wouldn’t have had to give Cynthia the bad news that you’d died.” Owen met Curt’s gaze, and registered the lack of gun pointed at him for the first time. Frowning in confusion, he opened his mouth, but no excuse fell out. “Broken tracker? Broken tech? That didn’t stop you from finding me in Singapore.”

“I was hurt. And not just the broken legs and nerve damage. You left me to save your own skin.”

“I thought you were dead Owen.” Curt shook his head and raised the gun again. Instead aiming at his forehead, the barrel only levelled with Owen’s chest. And then lifted an inch higher to his neck. “And that broke me.”

The dripping of water resonated and reverberated around Curt’s skull. He internalised it like a metronome. Or a countdown.

 _Three_.

“What are you going to do Curt?”

A deep breath. A firm resolve. A steady hand.

“You don’t have to worry about that Owen.” A smile. A warm-hearted, genuine smile. Something Curt hadn’t shared with Owen in four years. Not that Owen returned it.

 _Two_.

“Why?

A finger on the trigger, but no sense of dread weighed on Curt’s heart anymore. Death wasn’t an answer he’d ever wanted, and it wasn’t the fate he was going to give.

“Because I’m lying.”

 _One_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no idea if Ich Luge Bullets actually exist, but in the musical Heathers they're said to contain a tranquiliser and that Nazis used them to fake their own suicides at the end on WW2, so I thought it would be fun to include them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Honestly I'm more scared to upload this that I was to post Intoxicated; for one, there is a lot more good fanfic for this fandom now, and I also don't feel this is as good as that one was. But I don't want this to just sit around because I've put a lot of effort into it, so it's going up. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
